Assplosion! 2015

November 23, 2015 at 1:10 pm (My Soreballs Vacation)

Hey Squirt!

Hey Squirt!

“It’s not so bad. The prep is the worst.”

“Aw shit.”

“Hope everything comes out okay!”

Or from my boss Eva, the delicate German flower, “How’s the poop-chute, Charlie?”

As age 55 approaches, I have had to make concessions about staying young forever. My youthful smile is now 75% prosthetic, my formerly twelve-pack abs are now holding a forty or so. My hair is mostly still red. In order to keep this old ball a rolling, I have to stay ahead of the game. Hence, preventive medicine.

Doctors have been coming at me with the garden hose for five years now. “Let us have a look up there?” I have had no symptoms or history, but when Obamacare kicked in, and I could start doing some of these things regular people do? I jumped on the chance.

Did I say jumped? More like I stepped up cautiously…

I got my work schedule arranged so I could take two medical days and have two regular days off after. (My vacations are always medical in nature.) I went to WalMart to purchase the prep materials. I was relieved that the total was less than ten bucks. I could eat for half a week on ten bucks if I had to. Now I’m spending ten bucks to shit out everything in my system? Uh, okay. I hid the three types of laxative amongst the groceries, but the nice cashier lady who looked like Whoopi Goldberg was no fool. Deadpan, she looked me square in the eye and said, “Enjoy your evening.” I smiled and thanked her.

I waited a bit too long to read the paperwork. I should have quit eating things with seeds two dfays previous. (Oopsie, poopsie. Sorry about the salsa and raspberry jam.) I made up for it by only having a can of Chunky soup as my last meal. I passed out before I could have ice cream, and woke past the deadline for food. I was hungry already.

I kept busy, so as not to think about being food-free.I cheated ever so slightly. It said NO red dye in food or drink, including cherry, orange, grape, etc… My half-bottle of Candy Apple Faygo (ninety-nine cents, whoop whoop!) listed red dye #40 as its last ingredient. Fuck it, I’ll drink an extra glass of water. Down the hatch!

Rain was hanging out, keeping me company. As the evacuation time approached, she debated whether to stick around, then decided to run errands while I “did my business.” Taking care of business may take a while.

First up? A single laxative pill, and the 10 oz bottle of magnesium citrate. It said cherry-flavored, but was chear. Wherever they found these clear cherries? Send them back there! It tasted like Sprite mixed with dill pickle juice. Disgusting. It was the worst part of the experience, pants down.

Next step? Mix the 14-day supply of Mirilax with 64 oz of Powerade, and drink half within an hour. If the first medicine tasted that bad, I shuddered to think what this, ahem, shit was going to taste like.

Surprise! It was, as advertised, flavorless. With being hungry as hell, that may have been the best Powerade will ever taste.

Fast-forward, forty minutes. Rumble. Is that a fart? Take no chances. I made my first of several trips to le jon.

I’m not going to gross you out too much. After a brief cleaning blast, things liquefied. It reminded me of drinking. Sit around, catch a buzz and get up every twenty minutes to pee. I was just doing it sitting down for a change. After an hour, it reminded me of work. Sit around, read a little, watch a little TV, and get up every few minutes to deal with some shit.

The second phase of clean-out started at 4:45 AM. Rain was sound asleep, I left her that way. The second phase was quicker, and everything was coming out clear, albeit almost caution-yellow. At 7:35 AM I took my last 16 oz drink of water. Nothing more until afterward.

Medical Transport was a Union Cab. The cab got me to the doctor’s office an hour early. They adapted, got the ball rolling. With only two trips to the restroom during my twenty-minute wait. Trepidation as to whether I was “done” yet. The attending nurse told me to relax. “We have suction!” Phew!

One of my favorite moments of any medical procedure is the bed-ride to the operating theater. I hear Pink Floyd’s Breathe/Time from Dark Side of the Moon. Sadly, the intern rolling me had no idea who Pink Floyd was. “He’s old, right?”

The cute assistant was putting on a raincoat backward. The doctor seemed a nice fellow, explaining all the numbers on the screen. He explained, “Your colon is traveling downstream, and we are paddling upstream. If we sedate you lightly, I can blow air up there and get a good look around without causing you discomfort. We use carbon dioxide, so your body will absorb it. You won’t even have to fart it out! With propofol, we can put you out lightly, and you’ll be mostly normal when you wake up. I say mostly, because you will feel drunkish. You THINK you can do something, but your body will likely be a couple steps off. So no driving or life-altering decisions today, okay?”

“Deal. Hell, With my OMMP card, it’ll be like any old day at the office,” I said. The cannabinoid receptors are in cahoots with the Milk of Amnesia; I was assured I’d likely awaken well-rested with a huge sense of well-being. I thought of the camera and where it was going, and looked forward to that warm moment.

“Okay, we’re ready to go. I will be administering the anesthesia now.”

“How long do I have?”

“It usually works in about twenty seconds.”

“Okay, I will pay attention and report back from the other side.” After a few seconds I felt a warmth rising from my chest cavity, much like a minute or so after a shot of bourbon. Mmm, warm and–

“Wow, they are right. I felt like I nodded out for a nap after a big bowl of Steel Rod’s indica!” We were back, post-op and in my cubicle.

“So you had a good time?”

“All things considered…”

I was told to wait for the doctor, but after some apple juice and a couple minutes of conversation to make sure I wasn’t going to wander off into traffic, I was allowed to get dressed. Soon I was conferring with the doctor, a fellow who looks like someone who drinks at the Rialto.

“Well, you did GREAT on the cleanse, thank you for making my job easy. Here are some pictures of our trip.” He gave me a page with six photos in various angles. The one in the center had a white spot. “We found one polyp less than 5mm in size, and I nipped that little bugger right out of there. We will run tests, but you are probably okay for at least five years, and most likely ten from when we’ll have to do this again. You’ll get a letter in a few days with results, but I see no cause for any concern. Good job!”

Damn near killed 'em...

Damn near killed ’em…

“Back atcha, doc.”

“You are in good shape. Here’s a picture of your rectum from the inside looking out. That black thing is the camera. You have one small hemorrhoid, not even big enough for me to make fun of, so if there’s spotting it’s probably that. If there’s any bleeding of note, call someone. Anything more than spotting?”

I’m off to the ER.”

“Great. Take care of yourself.” My doctor excused himself.

I smiled and waited for my ride. Rain was still asleep when I got home. I decided to buck advice and ride the bus to Fred Meyer’s for ice cream and dinner. Frozen pizza and a roast beef hoagie, please. I ate one while the other cooked. Rain awoke long enough to have some pizza, and then we napped until morning.

I awoke to a text message from manager Eva. Could I come back a day early to work? Someone’s grandmother died. Sure! Eight hours overtime will pay for my monthly bus pass. Cha ching! Plus, I was getting a bit of cabin fever. Daytime shift at the Mothership before my typical work week will make it a downhill slide from there on out.

Sorry about the mudslide visual.

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2 Comments

  1. Dr T said,

    All the possible jokes are to easy to make for a response. So let’s take the high road(for once) & urge all the 50+s out there to get the ordeal done and over with. Your life is usually worth it. Now your system is ready fer that golden largebreasted turkey. Umm. . .

  2. AssCheek McGillacutty said,

    Well done tackling the issue of the proverbial cavernous conundrum!
    And well said Dr. T.-
    Because being over 50+ is like residing in the deep South, because you need to have your backdoor screened, lest the critters get ya.

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